


Give

by inb4invert



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bottom Credence Barebone, Christian Credence Barebone, Credence Barebone Crying During Sex, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Credence Barebone-centric, Kissing, M/M, Manipulative Gellert Grindelwald, POV Credence Barebone, Period Typical Homophobia, Religious Guilt, handjobs, manipulative Percival Graves | Gellert Grindelwald, period typical sexual repression, religious Credence Barebone, repressed sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inb4invert/pseuds/inb4invert
Summary: Somehow, it seems a sin worse than any other to withhold a single part of himself from Mr. Graves. What's more, he doesn't want to.





	Give

He is meant to meet him today. _Mr. Graves._

It’d been a week since Credence had seen the man anywhere outside of his own daydreams. A week of self-censure, of trying and failing to think of him in nothing but the most respectable of contexts. As he readies to leave, he feels the prickling heat burning to the tips of his ears, imagining what Mr. Graves might think if he knew the scope of Credence's wandering thoughts these past seven days. These past several _weeks,_ truth be told.

He’s seen for himself the man has magic… untold power. Surely Mr. Graves must be able to tell him out, must already suspect what the traitorous flush of his skin is only too eager to show, even in his absence. Knowing this, Credence feels torn between opposing guilts: for the wrongful nature of his secret--and the even greater wrong of keeping it from the object of his fixation. Somehow, it seems a sin worse than any other to withhold a single part of himself from Mr. Graves. What's more, he doesn't want to. In his private, late night longings, with the rasp of the thin woolen blanket shuffling rhythmically against his busy knuckles, that's what he thinks of, always. Opening himself to the man. _Letting_ him. 

Letting him do exactly what, Credence isn't sure. His understanding of what men and women do together is rudimentary at best; his understanding of what happens between men even more shadowy and uncertain. He's _heard_ things, but nothing illustrative enough to leave him with more than a sense of tantalising mystery. Images of hungry mouths and grasping hands, anatomy repurposed in unnatural and decadent ways for nothing but the hedonistic joy of it. Whatever it is, however it's done, Credence wants that. Wants that from Mr. Graves. The constant ache of it burns even hotter than his shame. 

In a vain last minute attempt to make himself more pleasing, he sweeps his eldest sister's tortoise shell comb through his hair,  
avoiding his own nervous glance in the bit of broken mirror she hides beneath her bed. He mustn't keep the man waiting. 

 

The streets are unseasonably warm today--something more like late summer than mid-autumn--and by the time he's made his way through the noise and frantic movement of the city, there's a light sheen of perspiration dampening the skin beneath his stifling collar. When he reaches the appointed alley, faintly nauseous with nerves and ever-present hunger, his stomach drops even further to find Mr. Graves already waiting there. His back is turned, one foot softly tapping beneath the sweep of his elegantly tailored overcoat. _“Please, don't let his anger be too great,”_ Credence pleads to himself, hating the bitter familiarity of this particular prayer. 

The mouth of the alleyway gives over to a strange hush as he crosses its threshold, a sudden intimate closeness at odds with the rush of automobiles and foot traffic only a mere few feet away. Mr. Graves turns at the scuff of his hesitant step, the sound seeming unfairly loud in the stillness. To his intense gratitude, Mr. Grave's heavy brows settle into something like relief at the sight of him, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a faint smile. Instantly, Credence chastises himself for ever thinking that Mr. Graves could be angry with him when the man has never been anything but inexplicably kind. “Credence,” he says, infusing the name with a gruff warmth that has its bearer bashfully ducking his head. “I'm glad you could come.” 

“I'm… I'm sorry I'm late,” Credence stammers out anyway, hoping to pacify any hidden irritation Mr. Graves is too good to show. This man doesn't deserve to be inconvenienced by someone such as himself, nor be debased so sinfully in his hidden thoughts. A sudden surge of fresh self-loathing fills him and for a horrified moment he fears he may begin to cry. 

“Nonsense,” says Mr. Graves lightly, as though he knows exactly what fears Credence grapples with silently before him. “I’m afraid I was the one to show up early. Sometimes I look forward to these little escapes from the office a bit too much, I think.” 

Credence feels his eyes widen at Mr. Grave's unexpected confession. A whisper of hope stirs within him at the words and he sees it instantly for the serpent that it is. Everyone wants any silly excuse to abandon their work for a moment or two, he reasons. Quickly, he reminds himself of how eager the man must be for the information that’s brought him here in the first place. Information that Credence has yet again arrived without. 

“I haven't found anything new,” he blurts, cringing at his own admission. The tears loom with even greater force. He hates how much of a disappointment he is to Mr. Graves. To everyone, God included, but to this man most especially. “I'm sorry.” 

Mr. Graves has moved closer as Credence stares at the pavement, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush as the man now steps carefully into his space. He startles as though struck at the gentle weight of the hand that settles firmly over the nape of his neck. “Did you try your best, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks him softly, dark eyes closely searching his face. Credence can feel his gaze like a physical touch, like another pair of hands feeling their way deftly in. “Y… yes?” He whispers hopefully. 

Mr. Graves pauses for an agonizing moment, eyes still probing. “Well, Credence,” he finally says, “If you've tried your best for me, I can't ask anymore than that, can I?” 

Credence feels the ground seem to pitch underneath him, his mind grasping for what to do with what he's just been asked. He feels the burden of his own uselessness more acutely than he ever has before, wants desperately to beg Mr. Graves to do exactly that: ask him for more, ask him for _everything._ He knows then with a sickening dread that there's nothing he wouldn't do for this man, not any criminal act. He's willing to risk Hell for him and still he can't procure the name of a simple child. The tears come then, forcing their way out hot and shameful.

“I'm sorry,” he hiccups, his voice strained, crushed for air in the fight against outright sobbing. His shoulders shake in a sudden convulsion, hitching up towards his ears as though he could disappear into himself if he wished it hard enough. Mr. Grave's hand at the base of his skull tethers him where he is, squeezing with the lightest pressure. 

“Credence,” he hears the man say beneath the sound of his own hitching breath, a tone of gentle admonition now colouring the word. He can't bring himself to look at Mr. Graves, see that handsome face closed to him now. He's done it, he's ruined everything and still beneath his anguish he struggles not to simply throw himself into the man's arms, to the ground before him like Peter at the foot of Christ. 

“Credence,” Mr. Graves repeats more firmly now, bringing himself close enough that Credence can feel his breath softly stirring the hair of his bowed head. “Credence, look at me.” 

The need to obey him wins out against the roiling conflict, and Credence slowly raises his face to meet Mr. Grave's eyes. What he sees there nearly stops his quaking heart. The man's eyes are blazing, not with the anger he expects, but with something altogether more powerful. It's nearly scalding, and if Mr. Grave's hand at his neck is an anchor, then his gaze is a wounding spear. No one's ever looked at Credence this way, and his lips part on an unformed question--but before the words can leave him Mr. Graves is surging forward, holding him steady with both hands to capture his mouth in a crushing kiss. 

Mr. Grave's lips press warm and insistent against his own, the faint stubble of his beard scraping rough over his tender skin. Grasping for any foothold, Credence thinks of the brush of the woolen blanket at home and a moan escapes him--the quavering whine of a dog. Mr. Graves takes the opportunity to sweep his tongue into his open mouth, humming with satisfaction at how easily Credence allows it. He feels his knees begin to buckle and reaches out to wrap his arms around Mr. Grave's neck, if only just to stay standing as his gasping mouth is hungrily claimed again and again. _So this is how it's done,_ he thinks. 

There are bricks at his back, Mr. Grave's steady hand cupping the curve of his head, fingers threading through his shorn hair. The man breaks his kiss, panting hard, and a lock of his hair has come free of its careful grooming to fall over his forehead. Credence marvels to see that he looks positively undone. “Mr. Graves?” he hears himself ask, his voice a mere whimper.

“Credence, I…” Mr. Graves swallows and takes a breath. Tries again. “You're a very special young man, Credence.” His voice is ragged. “You're very special to me. You can have the world if you want it badly enough. You need to know that.” 

Lips bruised and tingling from the kiss he's already pining to resume, Credence is too stunned to speak. He tries and fails to piece together the meaning of the words. He's _special._ He's special to _Mr. Graves_ and the knowledge has him reeling. 

Mr. Grave's hands caress his face, his thumb tracing lightly at the edge of the lips he's only just marked as his. He inclines his head, seeking out Credence’s eyes from beneath his dark brows. “I know you _want_ things,” he says, voice almost pleading. Credence fears his heart may beat straight out of his chest, eager to be in the hands of its true owner. _He knows._ And how can he pretend, how can he ever hide again what his own moaning sighs and grasping hands have just confessed? He'd let the man _kiss_ him, if what has just transpired between them can be called anything so tame. “You can have what you want,” Graves is saying. “I _want_ you to have it. I want that for us both. Just take it and it's yours.”

Credence can't allow himself to deny him, refuses to lie when the face of the man he's certain he loves is so raw and hopeful. But he can't say the words, either. Isn't sure he even knows the right ones. He draws in a shuddering breath, terrified to let his true nature lead him in this alley as it's done so many times alone in his bed. He lets his mind go blank, prays that God isn't watching, that Mr. Grave's magic is enough to shield him. His shaking hand drops down from the man's shoulder, slides serpentine over his fine waistcoat--lower, excruciatingly slow. 

He can _feel_ it, hot and hard and straining towards him through the fine wool serge of Mr. Grave's slacks. Curving his hand carefully against its solidity, pressing down, he feels a lurching deep in his belly--a painful wrenching twist of _want_ that leaves him breathless. He shivers at its thickness, the weight of it described by its shape beneath the fabric. Credence clamps his eyes shut against the truth of it, turning his face away even as he thinks how perfectly Mr. Graves fits into the shell of his palm, as nicely as his own sinfulness does on those nights he'd never, ever confess to. Something within him unfurls, opening up and reaching unseen tendrils towards the man breathing ragged against the pale stretch of his throat. He feels Mr. Graves push himself more firmly into his hand, sliding his length along the questing fingers with a broken groan. Credence swallows hard, suddenly desperate for air. _“Oh, Lord in heaven,”_ he breathes. 

His touch has broken a dam between them. Mr. Graves pushes in close, revolving his hips hard into Credence's palm, his mouth sucking kisses hot and wet into the side of his neck. He hears the sound of his own belt buckle clattering, and it brings a new sort of fearful thrill than it ever has before, knowing it's Mr. Grave's hands now tugging it free. He wants every obstacle between them vanished, already grown painfully hard with the anticipation of what's about to be done to him. He wants Mr. Graves to take him apart, dismantle him piece by piece, leave him soft and wet and _open_ as ripe fruit. Yearns to be remade by Mr. Grave's hand, shaped to fit.  
When he feels the man's callused palm wrap around him, sliding purposeful and greedy, he sobs out a strangled cry he's never heard before. 

“That's it,” Mr. Graves breaths rough against his ear, “that's what a young man needs. If you're good for me, Credence, if you do everything I say... I'll let you touch me in earnest, the way I'm touching you now.” 

Credence moans desperately at the promise, clinging at the lapels of Mr. Grave's heavy coat and thrusting unabashedly into his guiding hand. He looks down, sees the man's finely sculpted fingers curled around his aching length, the dark hairs dusting his wrist beneath the starched white cuff of his sleeve. _“Oh!”_ His face is wet with tears. “Oh, Mr. Graves, _please_ … please.” 

“I'll teach you everything…” Mr. Grave’s voice has gone low in his throat with the intensity of his feeling, his deft hand twisting sweetly with the words. “All the ways that you can please me. I _want_ to let you, my boy. I want so badly to hold you properly.” 

Credence's hips have already begun to stutter, pleasure coiling sharp and deep at the root. He grips at Mr. Grave's coat, tries to pull him in for another kiss. Mr. Graves brings his face in close, lips brushing lightly against his panting mouth as he speaks. His hand works with greater insistence, expertly calling the pulse and throb of him closer to the surface. “Find the child and we can have this, Credence. You'll stand by my side in the day…. lay by my side in the night….” 

With an unexpected softness, Mr. Graves kisses him sweetly, as a lover would, nipping tenderly. His free hand moves silently down the back of Credence's trousers, one warm digit sliding into place to gently press against the spot he never even dares to think of. For a brilliant, suspended moment, Credence hovers at the edge of absolute ecstacy, the promise of it greater than the Second Coming itself. Every sense trembles like a plucked string: the spice of Mr. Grave's expensive aftershave, the slick, wet sounds of the unspeakable intimacy between them, the heat of Mr. Grave's devouring mouth. Credence shudders once, twice, shaken to the bone with the goodness of it as he spills over into Mr. Grave's skillful hand. He's weak with the joy of it, the relief… He wants to give, and give and never stop until he's in his grave.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written this canon-compliant version of Graves/Grindelwald before and I wanted to explore its darkness. 
> 
> As always, you can visit me at [roy-batty-boy.tumblr.com](url)


End file.
